


On Reflection

by flowerdeluce



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Footnotes, Gen, Magic, Mirrors, Photography, Post-Canon, Trick or Treat 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-07-18 11:35:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16117583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerdeluce/pseuds/flowerdeluce
Summary: Almost a quarter of a century has passed since the Revival of English Magic, and the King’s Letters remain a mystery to the magical societies set about translating them.London’s first daguerreotype studio has opened in Regent-street. Will this impressive invention – described as “a mirror with memory” – help the societies decipher John Uskglass’ second prophecy or will it cause more trouble than it’s worth?





	On Reflection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flora_Legium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flora_Legium/gifts).



> Thank you for your inspiring letter. I've always been interested in the King's Book and the King's Reader post-canon, so I was super excited to have the opportunity to write about them. I hope you enjoy this fic and that Trick or Treat 2018 has been enjoyable for you! :)
> 
> I'd also like to say a HUGE thank you to my two kind beta readers, Verecunda and E. Your suggestions were brilliant, incredibly useful, and helped whip this little story into shape!

1841

Despite the studio’s location above the busiest shopping street in London, the only sounds to be heard within were the gentle yet animated tones of the daguerreotypist’s voice and the slow tapping of Vinculus’ stick. The ascent to the highest floor – far above Regent-street’s busy din below – had left Vinculus weary, but as the daguerreotypist explained, the elevation was necessary; it ensured the studio remained flooded with natural light in any weather.

Childermass craned his neck and peered up at the glass ceiling. It was spotlessly clean, nothing obscuring the prospect of the clear sky above. The brilliant blue formed a startling contrast to the coal-grey portraits and tableaus displayed upon the walls of the long corridors and narrow staircases that led them here, each demonstrating the uncanny accuracy of the new artform. It also contrasted with the rain-heavy skies they had left behind in Yorkshire, blanketing all three Ridings in gloom.

“This is where you’ll sit for the portraits.” The daguerreotypist led his guests towards a raised stage at the centre of the studio, eager to exhibit the tools of his trade.

“How long must he sit for?” asked Childermass, his eyes still adjusting to the light.

“Half-plates require the sitter to remain motionless for one minute,” he said, stepping up onto the stage. He bent beside a stand bolted to the stage floor, clamps and handles protruding from it like some kind of medieval torture device. Glancing down at Vinculus, he adjusted a few nuts and bolts before sliding a tall rod with a metal headrest to a height roughly commensurate with Vinculus’ own. Then he explained: “This holds you in place so that you do not move.”

Childermass smirked. He knew Vinculus, of all people, was incapable of keeping still for ten seconds, let alone a minute.

“Will it hurt?” Vinculus asked, squinting towards the stand. His vision had weakened considerably in recent years, but it had not dampened his spirits.

“I assure you it will not.”

Vinculus wobbled as he approached the stage steps and Childermass gripped his arm tighter. His fragility only reminded him of the urgency with which the portraits were required.

The question of the fate of the King’s Book after Vinculus’ death was one that had long troubled the magicians of England, and every society, from the broader theoretical and practical fellowships, to those with specific fields of magical interest, held their own decided views upon the subject. Ultimately, however, the decision of how matters ought to be arranged had fallen to the York Society. It was speculated that Vinculus’ children might inherit their father’s condition. The problem was, Vinculus could not say with any certainty if he had any. He was becoming far too frail to dispatch to meetings, to soak up the interest (and ale) of those requesting a viewing of the King’s Book. Childermass had no objection to travelling and had his favourites of the societies who invited them to attend their meetings, but none was any closer to discovering the meaning behind the blue devices decorating his companion.[1] The markings themselves had not faded, but the man carrying them was.

When the new technique of photogenic drawing started appearing regularly in the more respectable scientific periodicals, Childermass put it to the York Society – the only one he claimed membership of – that the invention might be useful in documenting the King’s Book. The proposal was roundly rejected. It was not the first time an opinion of his had been met with almost unanimous disagreement, though this never deterred him, particularly not now he was respected enough to be deemed worth listening to.

Norrellite-leaning members fought to keep their privately-commissioned anatomical studies of Vinculus exclusive, only allowing magicians of notable skill and station to study them, and even then, only under close supervision.[2] They had even gone so far as to seek out an undertaker capable of skinning the poor man.

Strangites, who had always advocated wider circulation of the drawings their colleagues were so keen to keep locked away, supported the idea of visual transcription by these new modern means. It had the added advantage that it solved the issue of artistic error also, as these new pictures were made by nature – by light – and not by man.

Some members were concerned for Vinculus’ soul. Others warned that daguerreotyping was a type of alchemy, or even a black art, rumoured to have links to fairy magic and therefore dangerous. Then there were those magicians who feared repercussions from John Uskglass himself, believing he intended only one exact version of his book.

Another occasion for anxiety was the reflective, mirrorlike quality of daguerreotype plates. Mr Segundus was consulted on the matter, as his writings on mirror theory had garnered much popularity in recent years.[3] After examining several plates loaned from the Royal Gallery of Practical Science, Mr Segundus was confident that they were not enchanted, although by his own admission he could not be sure, so the arguments continued.

Eventually, following months of balloting, committee investigation and attendance at practical demonstrations, the Society agreed that time was running out to reach a decision. Reluctantly, they assented to the production of a set of daguerreotype plates recording every inch of Vinculus’ skin like an ordnance survey; they would then store them until they could decide what to do with them. Childermass assured them he would be present during the plates’ creation to ensure the studio made none secretly, that Vinculus would be safe in his care, and that he would assume all responsibilities for their travel to and from London.

That was how Childermass found himself on the studio’s bright stage helping Vinculus to undress while the staff prepared their apparatus.

From a quiet corner, Childermass watched with interest as the daguerreotypist and his skilled assistants began the extraordinary process of recording the King’s Book for future generations. While a successful picture required stillness on the part of the sitter, a hive of activity took place behind the lens. The assistants worked swiftly, moving in and out of the adjoining darkroom, polishing the silver plates, directing Vinculus and timing his exposure, all the while excited to explain the craft and answer any questions concerning it. An acrid chemical aroma assaulted Childermass’ senses during his observation, drifting through from the darkroom – bromide, they explained, and mercury fumes to make the image appear. As that part of the process required absolute darkness, they could not show it him, but they described the effect as wondrous.

Vinculus brushed up well – Childermass had seen to his toilet himself that morning, trimming his brittle white beard into a tidy shape and ensuring he scrubbed every inch of his skin for the camera-obscura’s unforgiving eye. He remained calm and motionless as they clamped him into place, despite Childermass’ earlier concerns, allowing them to reposition him every few minutes for the next picture.

Childermass thought it best not to mention the paralysis spell which, unbeknownst to Vinculus, he had cast the moment they had positioned the headrest.

*

Back in his usual room at the Olde Starre Inne, and before exhibiting the pictures to the Society, Childermass thought it only right that he allow himself a private viewing. Vinculus was resting in the adjoining room following their return to York – which had taken a day longer than planned due to rain – and the Society would not expect them until later that evening. There was time.

Placing the packaged plates upon his bed, he untied the string fastenings and folded back the brown paper wrapping. There were six plates in total – Vinculus seated front and back, standing front and back, and both his sides with arms raised – bound in individual leather cases, each about the size of his hand. Opening the uppermost case, Childermass saw that a sheet of glass and a gilt mat protected the plate beneath. Beautiful embossed velvet decorated the opposite side.

Peering through a quizzing glass, he inspected the picture of a seated, forward-facing Vinculus. It was exquisite, crisp, and more detailed than the finest lithograph. It resembled a miniature portrait of the kind ladies kept in their bosoms, only more realistic than any painter could achieve with paint and brush. The precision of the detail was astonishing: every pore, hair and line on Vinculus’ skin was visible; the symbols looked vibrant and sharp; even shadows, emblematic of all that is temporary, were made permanent. 

Upon viewing a daguerreotype with his own eyes, Childermass appreciated the Society’s concern: they were indeed mirrorlike. The grey tones clung to the reflective surface as though they could disintegrate in a mere draft and were almost invisible beneath the daylight cutting through the curtains. Turning the picture transformed Vinculus into a ghostly image of himself, translucent, as the shadows turned light and whites turned dark to show him in reverse. From sharper angles, he was not visible at all, as though he had escaped the confines of the frame to fool the viewer.

“The true beauty of a daguerreotype cannot be appreciated until it is held in the hand,” the daguerreotypist had said. Childermass understood now.

He still remembered what the daguerreotypist told him regarding the science behind the craft. The process was something akin to alchemy: chemicals and flame, silver and polished copper, mixed with precision and painted with light, almost like casting a spell. These mirrors marked with chemical smoke, a mere collection of stains, would outlive the last person who remembered Vinculus. Was that not a kind of magic?

Looking up from the pile of pictures and paper, Childermass met his reflection’s eye in his room’s large standing mirror. What might happen if he took these mirrors of nature, these faithful depictions of John Uskglass’ own hand, into Faerie?

Well, it might not work. Nothing happened when they took Vinculus himself. It might also be dangerous. There had been negative effects on seemingly mundane objects when transported into Faerie in the past, resulting in the establishment of strict regulations on carrying items to and from Faerie.[4] Only a handful of magicians were permitted to do so, and Childermass was not one of them. But if he did not take them, the pictures might sit gathering dust for years, decades, before the Society agreed on what to do with them. Some of the more vocal members would do their best to ensure that they never saw the light of day again.

Helpless to resist the temptation, he gathered some essentials – his quizzer, memorandum book and a pencil – and slipped them into the deep pockets of his dark coat, along with the plates.

Standing before the mirror, he spoke the words that would lift the enchantment that both prevented the mirror from acting as a door to Faerie and kept it fettered to England. Immediately, the surface undulated, melting into a limpid silver that glistened brilliant white. The light faded slowly, until the mirror was a mere wood frame, an open door, a cool breeze drifting through from the other side.

Childermass grinned. It had been a while since he visited Faerie. Despite the many visits he had paid over the years, it never ceased to delight him.

Stepping over the threshold, he observed the familiar road connecting his humble room to the tangle of pathways, bridges and staircases that knitted England and Faerie together like threads of a great tapestry. Many artists had attempted to capture the views from some of those pathways, of horizonless expanses of water, of deep hollows with more steps than there were cobbles in London, and of lush flora inconceivable even to Bosch, but no painting could reproduce the sensations of being there. In the future, galleries might display daguerreotypes of fantastical Faerie landscapes. The technique improved constantly. One day, it might incorporate colour, even motion. 

Childermass withdrew one of the cases from his pocket. It remained in one piece, which was a good sign. Yet, as he opened it, he realised the markings on Vinculus’ skin were aglow with an eerie, pale light. The effect was not as it was on the other side of the mirror; instead of shadows turning white and vice versa, the King’s Letters distorted and shimmered, rippling like water. Then, all at once, they changed.

Childermass froze, unable to comprehend what he saw: the letters had translated themselves into English. He laughed out loud, one incredulous sound echoing from the ruins. John Uskglass’ second book began above Vinculus’ right collarbone, the words trailing across his ribcage, and he was the first magician to read it.

Carefully, he lowered the case to the ground, withdrew his book and pencil, and began to write.

 

* * *

 

[1] Childermass’ favourite magical society by far was that of The Learned Lincoln Ladies. At their first meeting, above an alehouse on the city’s old High Bridge, it was said that the ladies brought alive the two stone angels that overlooked the river. The angels promised to bless any boat that passed beneath the bridge by doubling the amount of any precious cargo they carried. Since then, the ladies have used their skills to feed Lincoln’s hungry, build dwellings for the homeless, and enchant the sick so they cannot feel pain. Their natural magical ability is so great, men have been known to disguise themselves as ladies in the hope of attending their meetings.

[2] The York Society of Magicians only ever commissioned one artist to reproduce John Uskglass’ second book: Harry Jacobs, a fine anatomical draughtsman and promising medical student at St George’s Hospital, London. Jacobs produced a series of seventeen illustrations of Vinculus’ markings, both in situ and distinct. However, one week after submitting his designs to the Society, Jacobs died in a riding accident. Some members thought it a punishment from John Uskglass himself, for creating an almost perfect likeness of the Book. Regardless of their views on Jacobs’ death, members unanimously agreed that his work was faultless, therefore no further copies were required.

[3] After holding a brief conversation with a polished coat button, John Segundus devoted a number of years to collecting and editing published reports, letters, and oral accounts of reflective surfaces having possible auditory, visual or physical links to Faerie. This later comprised the content of his book, _On Reflection_ (John Segundus, pub. Julian Bell, Newcastle, 1830). Though the topic is still much debated, Mr Segundus continues to receive letters daily from those claiming to have experienced similar phenomena. One example from his book is that of a Portsmouth woman who claimed a man in naval uniform clambered out of her garden pond on a particularly still day before disappearing into thin air. Another lady reported hearing hushed voices from the polished surface of her deceased husband’s signet ring which grew louder when placed inside an ear trumpet. Investigations continue, with some theoretical magicians claiming these objects were already linked to Faerie and the fact that they all contain a reflective surface is a mere coincidence.

[4] The first recorded instance of an object changing form in Faerie was a humble pastry. In 1818 in the city of Bath, a renowned eating house serving French buns with various sweet and savoury toppings decided its fame ought to extend to Faerie. Yet, when the proprietors attempted to transport the buns with the assistance of magicians, they immediately spoiled. Cream soured, fruit sauces grew thick with mould, and the buns themselves shrivelled as though decades old, even when fresh from the stove. Surprisingly, produce from neighbouring bakeries crossed the realms unharmed. The reason for the incidence remains undiscovered and to this day the eating house can only serve their delicacies to non-fairy visitors. Another early instance occurred in the winter of that same year, though it remains unproven. The young son of early-Revival Age magician, Harold Threlfall, claimed he stumbled through a mirror into Faerie while playing with toy soldiers. When he returned, the soldiers in his pockets were no longer made from wood but opal-coloured glass. These and more discoveries are detailed in _Object Permanence: The Reclassification of Objects in Faerie,_ by Frederic Piguet, pub. Abraham John Valpy, Berkshire, 1826.


End file.
